Memories

[Written January, 2007]

The Human Resources Director at my company flipped through my passport as she verified my identity before I began work again after a four month sabbatical. It was eight in the morning and I was groggy, wondering how I ended up back here. In September, I left to string for the Star-Tribune. At once a career exploration, it was also a great excuse to travel.

Here I was, getting my old job back at the insurance brokerage I worked at since 2003 and all I could think about was the anomalous second ‘out’ stamp on my visa with Sweden (my flight back to Warsaw was cancelled on account of heavy fog and I was never “stamped” back into Sweden).

My journey started by flying to Warsaw, staying with a friend from my hometown of St. Louis Park. From Warsaw, I would travel around the continent.

As I weaved my way through Poland, Switzerland, Hungary, Greece, the Czech Republic, Finland, Sweden, Denmark, and in a fortuitous set of circumstances, Ecuador, the world became enormous and microcosmic at the same time.

I never went abroad during college, opting to focus on what Gustavus had to offer domestically. I graduated in 2005, went full-time with my company, and started hoarding my unused salary.

After saving a healthy sum, I felt comfortable leaving to travel and tackle the world on my own terms. Having an open door in Geneva at the UN’s press office with a freelance journalist to learn the ways of the pen, I made it my first stop. A press junket to Ecuador availed itself to me and I seized the opportunity.

I am part of a growing number of people in my generation who, knowing that this is the most opportune time to travel (no spouse, kids, mortgage, etc.), throw caution to the wind and see the world.

Three months outside of one’s native country allows access for that individual to a new perspective. Put simply, a fish is not aware of that fact that it is a fish, until taken out of water. And it’s getting back into the water that yields epiphanies.

O’Hare was busy when my flight finally touched American soil after ten hours in the air. Bustling people trying to catch their domestic flight from Chicago pushed and shoved as they peered down the baggage claim.

Walking down the long terminal after the short tram ride from the international terminal, I saw two homeless men being removed from the outer terminal. The faces of hungry children flashed through my eyes and I realized for that moment that our country has a lot in common with a place like Ecuador.

It was October, during the middle of the press junket. We had just finished a train ride down to El Nariz de Diablo in Alausi. We consumed a box lunch on the tour bus as our driver deftly negotiated the Ecuadorian highland roads.

As our tour guide made his triumphant attempt to extol Cuenca (our destination), I began noticing children awfully close to the road periodically. Many of them had strings in their hands, knotted shreds of old clothing.

A few more moments passed and the frequency of children was increasing. I walked up to the front of the bus and saw that along the road through the highlands, the children were setting up roadblocks with their string tied from one end of the road while one child held the other end up taut for approaching vehicles.

Cars showing no signs of slowing blew through, the children letting the string down when it was obvious their efforts were for naught. I didn’t understand what they were doing.

Then we stopped. Our tour bus driver, an Ecuadorian whom I would come to trust for honest answers, opened the door to the cabin of the bus and asked if we had any food left from our box lunches for the kids.

All nine of us jumped to attention and we put together a large ration of packaged food. A Russian journalist and I walked out of the bus to hand the food to the children. As the smiles across their little faces broke loose, I looked at Katia, who looked back at me. No words needed utterance.

As we got back on the bus, I asked the driver why the people were so hungry here and not elsewhere during our journey. He informed me that the farming industry is everything in the highlands and that periodically, crop yields aren’t sufficient. Everyone goes hungry.

That’s when I saw our tour guide enter the driver’s vestibule and shut the door. Angry Spanish went back and forth between the Ecuadorian men. I would later find out that our driver was being scolded for allowing a group of journalists to see such national disgrace.

I sat down and remained silent, deep in thought, the rest of the way to Cuenca.